At the 5 p.m. Mass on Saturday, July 13 I spoke in my homily about the Gospel – how all of us, in some way, are called like the apostles to go into the world to preach the Good News of repentance, healing and hope.
After I got home, the events in Butler, Pennsylvania changed everything.
I saw the images on TV. I’m sure you did, too. The blood-stained bleachers. The horrified people in the stands. The former president, blood streaming down his face. I watched some of the commentary, heard the statements, read the calls for prayer coming from around the country and around the world.
I ended up taking another look at Sunday’s scripture – and I was struck by a part of the liturgy that I usually don’t preach about, the psalms. The psalmist prays for a world we all dream of – but that right now seems so far away.
“I will hear what God proclaims; the Lord – for he proclaims peace. Kindness and truth shall meet; justice and peace shall kiss. The Lord himself will give his benefits; our land shall yield its increase. Justice shall walk before him and prepare the way of his steps.”
I decided to set aside my other homily and reflect more on what this passage is saying to each of us Sunday morning. I remembered other events like this.
I grew up not far from Laurel, Maryland, and remember my mother taking me to the Laurel Shopping Center – the same place where another man running for president, George Wallace, was shot and crippled.
A decade later, I was working for CBS News in Washington, and one of my colleagues was Charlie Wilson – the cameraman who captured the now-historic footage of Ronald Reagan when he was shot.
Then there are all the others whose names filled the headlines: Gabby Giffords, Steve Scalise and now Donald Trump. It seems endless.
And we find ourselves confronted by these words today: “Kindness and truth shall meet. Justice and peace shall kiss.”
When? How? In an unjust, hostile world, where is justice and peace? No matter what your political affiliation, you can’t help but feel shock, helplessness and even fear. What have we become? How often do we have to condemn these evil acts? What will happen next?
On May 13, 1981, a Turkish gunman named Ali Agca shot and seriously wounded Pope John Paul II. Four days later, from his hospital bed, the pope recorded a message for an event he never missed, his weekly Regina Coeli prayer in Vatican Square.
“I pray for the brother who struck me, whom I have sincerely forgiven,” he said. “United to Christ, Priest and Victim, I offer my sufferings for the Church and for the world.”
Two years later, the pope met with Ali Agca in prison. The Holy Father personally offered his forgiveness for the act that nearly took his life.
How many in our world could do that today? We need to try.
In my homily Saturday, I spoke of how all of us are called to be apostles, heralds, messengers, carrying Christ’s message of healing into our broken world.
With that in mind, I think this moment offers us a bold challenge – calling on us to examine how we live, how we talk, how we engage on social media. We need to ask some hard questions, most importantly: what can we do to help turn down the incendiary rhetoric burning in the public square? How can we make things better? We need to bring harmony and peace into a culture increasingly consumed by hostility, division and war.
This Church is named for a saint known as a peacemaker – a famous prayer that carries the name of St. Francis of Assisi pleads with Almighty God to make us “instruments of peace.” How we need that now.
My grandmother came to this country as a young girl from Czechoslovakia – what was then Austria-Hungary – in the late 19th century. Whenever a thunderstorm came rolling through the Pennsylvania coal country, she grabbed a rosary and fell to her knees.
She knew the power of prayer to calm a troubled, fearful heart.
Thunder is rolling through our country now. And we need to be on our knees. Pray for all the victims and their loved ones, yes. But pray, also, for ourselves.
Amid our brokenness, we pray for healing. In our anger and hostility, pray for understanding. In our division, pray for unity. In our despair, pray for hope. We pray to be able to forgive what seems unforgivable. Because that’s what Jesus would do – it’s what he did on the cross. We ask him to whisper to us the first words he spoke in the Upper Room after the resurrection: “Peace be with you.” Peace.
In that spirit, I want to take this moment to suggest we do what my grandmother would do. Very simply: Pray.
This is where everything needs to begin. Pray to be like the apostles in today’s gospel – messengers of healing who drive out demons and offer the gift of hope.
After the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., Robert F. Kennedy said, “Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”
Pray for that. Pray to be agents of change – men and women who rededicate ourselves to building a world where “kindness and truth shall meet…where justice and peace shall kiss.”
Pray for our country and its leaders. Pray for the intercession of our patron, Francis of Assisi.
Last night, I found a prayer from another Francis, our pope. This morning, we make these words our own.
“Lord, God … you created us and you call us to live as brothers and sisters. Give us the strength daily to be instruments of peace; enable us to see everyone who crosses our path as our brother or sister…”
“Keep alive within us the flame of hope, so that with patience and perseverance we may opt for dialogue and reconciliation … Lord, defuse the violence of our tongues and our hands. Renew our hearts and minds, so that the word which always brings us together will be ‘brother’, and our way of life will always be that of peace.”
Deacon Greg Kandra is an award-winning author and journalist, and creator of the blog “The Deacon’s Bench.”
